Cold Bones - Yeah, That's My Love
by kylermalloy
Summary: After the war between hunters and the supernatural destroys most of what they know, Stiles and Lydia are left with nothing but each other in a cabin in the woods. Stiles becomes Lydia's caretaker as her powers grow, and she feels, hears, tastes, and screams death every day.
1. Stiles

Stiles entered the cabin carrying two armfuls of grocery bags. "Hey, it's me. I'm back."

There was no response. The cabin was still and quiet, echoing its response back to him—like it was mocking him.

He set the food down by the door. "Lydia?"

No answer.

The cabin was just as he'd left it: old furniture covered in dust, a smoking fireplace from where he'd failed to build a fire the night before.

Where was Lydia?

The front room was empty, but the door to the bedroom was open. Inviting. He made his way toward it, heart in his throat.

When he reached the open doorway, he could see Lydia's prone form, stretched on her back on the cold wood floor. One leg was bent upward at the knee, the other splayed out at an angle. Her arms lay outstretched at her sides, one bent at the elbow, the other drifting down toward her waist. Her eyes were open, staring blankly into the ceiling and far beyond it.

She wasn't moving.

Stiles's mouth opened slightly, hearing his breath come in short gasps. He took small, disjointed steps toward her, unable to speak, to make his voice work.

He lowered himself on the floor, on his hands and knees, so his gaze was level with her upside down face. She remained completely still. He was careful not to pin her hair to the ground—strewn out around her head in an ethereal, underwater-y image.

He moved his head lower, closer, so his cheek brushed against hers. With his lips less than an inch away from her ear, he took a deep breath.

And bellowed out his best Chewbacca impersonation.

Lydia's body twitched as though he had shocked her with electricity. Her open lips emitted a sigh, almost a sigh of frustration. It almost sounded like actual Lydia.

Stiles chuckled briefly at his own antics before sobering again. "C'mon, Lydia," he muttered, moving his hands to touch either side of her jaw. His thumbs stroked a tiny, hesitant pattern up her cheeks. "Come back. It's okay."

Her arm moved first. One hand lifted up, fingers waving as though they were testing the air.

She sighed again. "I hear it," she whispered. "They're all around me." Her eyes blinked, once, then two times, then several times in rapid succession. Stiles could have sworn he saw her pupils dilate from pinpricks to black holes.

"What's all around you?" He put his hands behind her head to support her as she sat up.

Lydia stared into his eyes, focusing for the first time since he'd come back. Her expression was one of helpless despair and confusion. "The voices."

...

None of this made any sense.

It was commonplace now for Stiles to walk in on Lydia like that—splayed out on the floor like she'd fainted. She wasn't unconscious, but she wasn't exactly...there. She was listening, she'd claim. Almost like...meditation.

 _But why do you lay down like that?_ he asked her.

She just looked at him. _I don't know._

They knew it had something to do with her _something_ powers. Her _banshee_ powers—they'd learned the name just in time. Right before everything went to crap.

It had all gone wrong that night at the hospital, when Deucalion had made his proposal, wolf fangs glinting in the moonlight as he seduced Scott with his golden promises of saving his mother, saving Stiles's father, stopping the Darach.

Stiles had begged him not to go.

The last memory he had of Scott was his human face, wild and frightened, apologetic and desperate, on the hospital roof. Right before he followed Deucalion, straight off the side of the building.

Just days later, the Alpha pack had paraded down the street, full moon practically glowing behind them. Out in the open. The biggest one, Ennis or whatever, had held the now twice-mangled body of Julia Baccari—or Jennifer Blake, their English teacher. Dead, all the way this time.

Scott hadn't been with them.

Since then, the Alpha pack had overrun Beacon Hills. They would shift in full daylight, in plain sight, taking whoever they wanted—either to kill or to turn. The high school had slowly emptied in the following days, as kids dropped out with symptoms of "glowing eyes" or "missing limbs."

Stiles's dad had never reappeared. Neither had Scott's mom.

Dr. Deaton had mentioned some crazy-dangerous plan to find them, but he'd disappeared before he'd been able to put it in motion. The only thing he'd left at the clinic was a bloody handprint.

And no one had seen Scott since the hospital.

Well, not exactly. Stiles could have sworn he'd seen a shape outside his window one night, watching, maybe...guarding? He hadn't seen the eyes. What color they were. He wasn't even sure it hadn't been a dream.

Stiles held on to the far-fetched hope that they—his dad, Scott, and Melissa—were still alive. Just missing. Hidden.

With the supernatural running rampant through town, putting everyone in danger, Chris Argent had stepped up to push them back. He'd reluctantly rejoined the hunt, gathering together all his father's hunters to form a human militia. A shield between the werewolves and the civilians.

Allison was with them.

 _It'll save the most people,_ she'd told Stiles, grim-faced. This was the day after they'd found Isaac in the McCall living room, bloody slashes raking through his chest, neck, and face.

With two sides formed, one with firepower and one with claws, the town had more or less become a warzone. People ran from their homes, evacuating in droves. Many more weren't so lucky. It became commonplace to see dead bodies in the street, in people's yards and houses.

It had overwhelmed Lydia, the explosion of death around her. She hadn't been able to go to school, or drive her car, or even read a book without a blinding pain in her skull. She screamed so often the windows on her house had been permanently replaced with wooden boards.

With practically the whole town hip to the supernatural community, it hadn't taken long for her secret to get out. (Stiles suspected Peter Hale had something to do with the leak—with Derek taken by the Alphas and Cora gone missing, the backstabbing traitor had nothing to lose. No one to protect but himself.)

Soon Lydia had found herself a target of both sides—the banshee was a hot commodity.

Allison had called him, urgent panic in her voice. _They're coming for her. They won't let me out of the bunker, Stiles. Please do something. Tell her to run._

As Lydia's mother cowered in their vacation home, and with hunters closing in, Stiles had taken matters into his own hands. He'd crammed as much survival gear—and as much of Lydia's stuff—as he could fit into his Jeep, and then he _drove._

He didn't look back. They couldn't.

They ended up in a cabin, in woods far north of Beacon Hills and far from any human presence. Any contact with the outside world was dangerous for Lydia. Stiles was sure that neither side had truly given up their search for her.

The cabin was anything but idyllic. There was no electricity, no heat, and water came from a rusty pump outside. It was cold, much colder than Stiles was used to, and there was no food source. He had to drive for hours on end, each time farther than the last, to get food, gas, and candles.

Despite their distance from Beacon Hills, Lydia didn't stop feeling the death there. In fact, since Stiles had taken her and run, her sensitivities had only grown. They became a near constant part of her, almost this whole other personality that overtook her from time to time, listening to the voices in her head, wandering around the cabin with unblinking eyes.

It creeped him out.

But it was _Lydia,_ and he _had_ to take care of her. It was like a genetic imperative.

She had a tendency to sleepwalk, to wander out unknowingly like she had back in Beacon Hills—answering the call of corpses. Stiles installed extra locks on the front door, not wanting to repeat the night he'd woken up to an empty bed, then run at least a mile, barefoot in the cold, to catch up to her. She hadn't even remembered it in the morning.

Several times every day, she felt death. Whether it tingled in her bones, played like a song in her head, or burst out of her mouth as a scream, Lydia had become a walking death-o-meter.

At least, that was what Stiles called it in his head. He had a feeling if he said it aloud, he might have to sleep on the floor.

That was another thing he'd had to get used to—sharing a bed with Lydia. When they'd first found the cabin, going off only a location Stiles had in his dad's old address book, and discovered it only had one bed, there had been a moment of silence. Then Lydia had squared her shoulders and said matter-of-factly, "We'll just have to share."

He didn't mind it, not at all. And she seemed comfortable with it, too. They had to huddle together every night, creating the only source of heat in the room.

The only thing he minded was when she bolted upright screaming. Lydia had never been a very quiet person, and her banshee scream was...excruciating. He'd woken up more than one morning with blood crusted in his ear.

He'd finally taken two strips of gauze from the first aid kit and fashioned a pair of earplugs for himself. It helped, a little.

Unfortunately, nothing could help Lydia through her...episodes. From what he could tell, they began with a skull-splitting headache. She'd clutch her head in anguish, while her whole body started shaking.

If Stiles was near her, she'd grab his wrists and hold on tight. She'd clamp her lips together, desperately trying to hold in her scream. She hardly ever could.

In those moments Stiles felt horribly helpless. He couldn't do anything for her to ease her pain, or take away the death she was experiencing by proxy. He tried to talk her through it, keep his hands on her body to ground her, catch her if her legs gave out—which had happened more than once—and hold her until she came back to herself.

"How long do we do this?" Lydia murmured to him, once after her hysterics had shattered the glass in their one precious kerosene lantern. Stiles had knelt on the floor and wrapped both arms around her, pinning her flailing limbs under his own. Now they sat, tangled together on the dirty floor, Lydia's head leaning against his shoulder. "Will I ever figure this out?"

He'd been unable to answer, and instead just pressed his lips to her forehead.

Despite all the... _banshee_ activity, Lydia was still very much Lydia most of the time. She spent most of her time reading, teaching herself more advanced mathematics and trying to figure out how to repair the busted-up generator they'd found out back. Somehow she still woke up every morning and looked impeccable.

She was probably the only person, Stiles supposed, who could walk around this dusty, falling-apart cabin and still look like a queen doing it.

No one could ignore, though, the toll that this ordeal had taken on her. She cried at night sometimes—over her mom, whom she had no way of knowing if she'd survived. Over Allison, who had renounced everything supernatural to rejoin her family and try to save the town. Her last act as Lydia's friend had been to warn her to run. She and the other hunters could be dead by now.

As much work as Lydia did, reading up on physics and math far beyond calculus—which all turned to a number-y mush in Stiles's brain—she still got distracted, haunted by what she saw. He'd happened to glance at her notes one day, page upon page of partial differential equations scattered on the bed. The numbers and symbols were peppered with her drawings—her favorite tree, sets of teeth that looked suspiciously like werewolf fangs. A disturbingly detailed rendition of a fly. A circle that could have been anything from a puddle to a pancake to a pond.

It had sent a shudder through Stiles upon seeing it—a draft creeping along the back of his neck, blowing cold air on his skin.

Whatever was hidden in those drawings, it couldn't be good.

...

Sometimes Stiles woke up with Lydia's screams ringing in his ears, her thrashing around in her sleep. Other days, he woke to peace and quiet, with Lydia, still sleeping, nestled against him with her head under his chin.

Today he awoke unable to breathe.

It took him a few seconds to figure out why—Lydia's hand was on his face.

Not just in an unconscious, flail-in-your-sleep kind of way. Her palm covered his mouth and nose, fingers stretching toward his cheek and forehead. Like she was blessing him. Or...claiming him.

Later he'd probably laugh about how her tiny hands couldn't even span his whole face, but for now he focused on pulling her off.

This was one of those things. A banshee thing. Something she couldn't really control.

"Lydia. _Lydia._ "

She jerked awake, snatching her hand away immediately.

He put his hand on the side of her neck, comforting, soothing her. His thumb stretched up to stroke her cheek. When he spoke, he lowered his voice to a gentle murmur. "Are you okay?"

Her chest heaved in and out, in and out, taking deep breaths to calm herself. "I'm fine. I was just...I had a dream."

"What was it?" He tried not to sound too excited or anxious—sometimes Lydia saw the death of someone they'd known. He'd always ask who it was—with one specific person in mind—but she never told him. Would never confirm _yes_ or _no._

"I was walking in the woods. There was a giant tree—well, a tree stump. There were...fireflies? They were flying out of the stump, coming and surrounding me. Almost like they were...protecting me.

"And there was a dead body on the ground." She took another deep breath. Her voice trembled. "He... _it_...didn't have a face. All I could see was his mouth."

Her eyes stared past him now, looking into the distance, looking at nothing. "Then he got up. Moved. The way he walked...it was _wrong._ Like a puppet on a string."

Stiles listened with bated breath. Whatever horror her dream could represent, at least he still didn't have concrete proof that his dad was dead. "What do you think it means?"

Lydia fixed him with a patented _Look._ "I don't _know._ Maybe 'don't go looking for zombies in the woods?'"

"Probably," he quipped back.

They shared a laugh, a short huff of amusement that lasted less than two seconds before they both sobered.

It was hard to stay positive about Lydia's powers, about what she saw. Partly because what she saw was incredibly depressing; partly because there was still _so much_ that they didn't—couldn't—know.

Both of them liked to figure things out. Knowing next to nothing about Lydia's powers was slowly driving them both crazy.

Stiles drew her closer to him, wrapping his arms around her tiny body. She only remained rigid for a few seconds before melting against him.

In the warmth of their embrace, their constant anxiety burned a little dimmer.

...

They were almost out of food.

Stiles threw on layer after layer to wield off the cold. He felt like he was wearing every flannel he owned—except for the one draped over Lydia's shoulders.

Lydia always hated him leaving. With no idea of how far the supernatural incursion had spread, the banshee could be a target at any number of towns along the west coast by now.

"We could get you a disguise," Stiles offered as he put on a wool hat. "The whole nine yards—trenchcoat, fedora, glasses...mustache," he added, sneaking a mischievous glance behind him.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "I wish I could go. But I'm going to stay. My head hurts."

"Your head hurts?"

She pressed her fingers to her temples, kneading her skin in small circles. "A little. I keep hearing this...buzzing. Like there's a fly in here."

"A fly?" Stiles glanced around the cabin. After last night, the temperature had to be at least 50 degrees inside. "Isn't that a little...unseasonable?"

"Yes, but I'm hearing it anyway. I'll just try to sleep it off."

He nodded slowly. "Okay. I'm bringing back some medicine, though."

He pecked her cheek before leaving.

...

Stiles drove fast. On the rocky, uneven terrain, it probably wasn't safe to go at such high speeds. But he hated being away from Lydia for any amount of time—any time they were apart was time where something could happen to her.

Someone could catch up to them. Take her out, or just plain _take_ her, and Stiles couldn't do a thing to protect her if he were miles away at a mom'n'pop store.

When the Alpha pack had taken Beacon Hills, Stiles's whole life had imploded. He and Lydia had lost everything, and _everyone_ , who was important to them.

Deep down, he knew the truth about his dad. About Scott's mom. He knew he'd never see Scott again. Lydia could never see Allison again.

All they had left was each other.

If he lost Lydia, Stiles would…

He didn't know what he'd do.

He bought food and supplies quickly at some roadside store he was pretty sure hadn't been cleaned in years. The cashier who rang him up might have as well been part of the crusty interior.

As he hoisted the groceries in his arms, he thought he saw someone sniffing around his Jeep through the front window.

When he exited the store, though, he didn't see anyone. Unease prickled the back of his neck as he loaded the groceries.

Fifteen miles down the road, the faint growl of an engine reached his ears. Not of the Jeep's rusty coughing—this was smaller, more precise. Like a motorcycle. Like Scott's.

No one else drove on these roads.

He was being followed.

Stiles's body lit up with adrenaline. Immediately he began to strategize, the way he always had with Scott. The way he had the night hunters had come to Lydia's home.

They were behind him. Following him. He couldn't lead them to Lydia.

 _What if they were already there?_

They'd already seen the Jeep—he couldn't lead them there. But he was close to the hiking trail that led up to their cabin. All he had was two or three miles to run.

He vaulted out of the Jeep without waiting for it to stop.

A familiar _thunk_ sounded in the metal of his Jeep. He glanced back, registering an arrow sticking out of his door.

Hunters. Coming for them. Coming for Lydia.

Stiles felt his heart leap into his throat. He turned and ran, limbs flailing, into the everpresent fog blanketing the mountains. Soon his Jeep was lost in the cloud of white.

 _It was happening, they'd been found, hunters had caught up, and they couldn't be too far ahead of the more natural-born trackers—_

He was sprinting like he hadn't since that night he'd run to the hospital to check on Lydia, attacked and bitten by an Alpha.

He _had_ to get to Lydia. They had to get out of there, they had to run—

A growl shook the air. A deep, rumbling cry that Stiles had only heard a few times. That made his blood run cold every time he heard it. The howl of a werewolf.

He was being followed by a werewolf.

 _And_ a hunter.

He was out of breath by now, gasping for air, almost wheezing. Surely, they would be on top of him soon. Or maybe, he thought fleetingly, the werewolf would turn on the hunter, and they would kill each other before they got to him. _And more importantly, to Lydia._

As if on cue, he heard a snarl behind him, a wolf preparing to attack. Then a human cry of surprise.

He couldn't help it. He paused, turned around.

Two silhouettes were outlined in the fog, not a hundred feet from him. One was crouched low to the ground, slashing, clawing. The other held a large, clunky weapon, trying to position it to fire.

Stiles backed slowly away, watching with fascinated horror as the human hunter cried out in agony and collapsed.

And unleashed a hail of arrows as he fell.

Stiles didn't turn fast enough.

A white hot spike pierced his abdomen.

He doubled over, unable to cry out or stop himself from falling. He couldn't feel his legs, couldn't feel anything from the waist down.

When he put his hands to his stomach, they came away sticky. And red.

With fumbling fingers, he pulled out the arrow, slick with blood.

 _Lydia._

 _Lydia Lydia._

He had to get to her. Had to protect her.

He stumbled to his feet. His numb limbs moved clumsily, like they were made of rubber. Hot blood spilled through his fingers, staining his clothes and running down his legs.

Stiles gritted his teeth. _Ignore the pain. Have to get to Lydia._

He was vaguely aware of a keening behind him, soft, beastlike growls.

Was the wolf down, too?

He didn't know. He didn't care. He had to get to Lydia. Warn her. Get her away…

Black danced on the edges of his vision. The cabin swam into focus in front of him. Stiles opened his mouth, trying to call her name. If he succeeded at all, he couldn't hear his own voice.

 _Please be awake. Please be Lydia._

His legs gave out.

He managed to crawl the last few paces, dragging his useless, senseless legs behind him.

He could barely make it through the door and find her blurry outline before he collapsed.


	2. Lydia

_Nononononono_

Lydia's hands skimmed helplessly over the blood on his shirt, on his jeans, and still spilling out the hole in his stomach. A puddle of red was forming on the floor, under where he was curled around the wound, in a loose fetal position. His eyes were closed, skin deathly pale.

Her breathing sped, crescendoed, nearing hyperventilation. This was bad.

 _Why did you take it out?_

He should have left it in. Like the beast just a few yards from the door, heaving its last growling breaths. An arrow stuck his chest, just above the heart. Blood loss hadn't been what killed _him,_ just the inability to heal vital organs in time.

He'd been hit while in wolf form, human features twisted and marred into a thick uncaring mask. Something _cruelty violence killing_ had carried him further from humanity than Lydia had ever seen in a wolf.

Lydia moved her gaze back to the boy on the floor under her helpless hands.

 _Stiles open your eyes_

He wasn't moving. He hadn't even been able to say her name before hitting the floor. The pool of blood was growing in area, spreading spreading _spreading—_

Her breath sped up and hitched and choked and she struggled to see beyond the building pressure, the pain behind her eyes.

 _Have to stop the scream._

How? What could save him? Lydia didn't have to be a banshee to know that his wound was almost guaranteed to be fatal.

Unless...

On her hands and knees she dragged herself across the floor, streaking the wood with red. Out the door across the yard to where the wolf now lay still, huddled at the foot of a tree.

His fangs were still visible.

Searching hands found a rock, bigger than her fist, heavier than her head. _One, two_ blows to his jaw and she held a tooth in her hand. An unnaturally large and sharp canine.

Good for biting.

She crawled back to him, back to Stiles. Braced her knees against his back. Pulled up his shirt with one hand, almost numb with cold, baring the ugly bloody tear in his stomach.

Her other hand still clutched the wolf tooth in white clumsy fingers. Lydia positioned it over the soft tissue above his hip, poised to slice through skin and tissue and muscle.

As she slid the tooth in, her hand convulsed, fear almost overcoming her determination. She almost pulled up, yanked it out.

He didn't even flinch at the new wound, the false bite she was simulating. If he breathed at all, it was too shallow for her to tell.

She pulled the tooth out, too, for if this didn't work, he was already gone.

Blood leaked almost sluggishly from this wound, slow and reluctant.

 _ScreamscreamscreamNO—_

Lydia bit down on her lip, clenching her teeth until she felt her own blood start to flow. _Wait have to wait please Stiles wake up_

She moved around his still body to sit by his head. His face was still warm to the touch. She brushed her fingers over his cheek, feeling the blessed heat set her numbed skin on fire.

 _If her fingers are freezing, then his skin is cooler than it feels._

What color were his eyes? She hadn't thought to check the werewolf's eyes, glowing gold or blue or red _redred_ _it has to be red is where the power is_

She strained her memory to remember only a few minutes back—the pain in her head made it almost impossible to focus. His—the wolf's—eyes were half closed, rolled back in near death or full death...barely any spark left in his mutated body...must have just been turned within a few months by the Alpha pack, running wild through Beacon Hills, or maybe further by now…

 _But he had to have killed. Scarred from battle as he was, he had at least killed some humans, because—_

Because.

The waves emanating off him tasted of death. Not just of his own, but of the innocents he had taken, like the ones she felt every day.

And then she knew for sure, the color sparking dully under his half closed lids was a pure icy unnatural—

Blue.

There hadn't ever been any hope, then. The tooth she'd torn from his head had never held any power to turn. To heal wounds.

The pool of Stiles's blood had reached a diameter longer than his entire body. Her knees were soaked from kneeling in it. When she lifted her palm from the floor, it left a handprint—an island in the sea of red—until the flood rushed in. Blood filled the little empty space and covered any sign that her hand had ever been there.

As she watched it, watched his blood erase her handprint, something came undone in her head. The pressure in her brain amplified until it roared in her ears, and all her practiced restraint snapped into splinters.

She screamed.

.

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.

Screaming was not like she remembered. Before everything, before a chance encounter, a bite, had awoken the banshee inside her, screaming was like...speaking. Singing. Just a little louder and it took a little more energy.

Now her scream was an all-consuming creature in and of itself, clawing its way up her throat, raking against her vocal cords. Blinding and deafening her, she lost all control and sensibility with just the singular unfocused thought _hurtshurtshurtsHURTS_

Then it was over. She didn't know how much time had passed. Her throat was simultaneously dry and on fire. The pain in her skull was dim now by comparison. Her eyes could focus again.

Stiles had not moved.

Her fingers traced a shaky path down his cheek, leaving a sticky trail. A drunken line playing connect-the-dots with the moles on his jaw.

Usually by now he would be taking her face in his hands, thumbs stroking gently across her cheeks. _Are you okay. Did you see anything._

Nothing.

 _Lydia, look at me._

Look—at his deep brown eyes that definitely aren't dead or empty.

 _Did I break anything?_

 _Just your personal record._

 _I want to lie down now._

 _I can make you some soup…_

 _No, I don't want any. Come with me._

Tears streamed silently down her face. Wind gusted through the open door, chilling the moisture on her cheeks into icy rivulets.

 _I'm cold, Stiles._

 _We don't have any more blankets._

 _Then warm me up yourself._

She stretched out on the floor. Her cheek rested on the floor, in the cooling pool of blood. She could have lapped it up with her tongue, if she'd tried.

Her hair spilled over her shoulder, falling into the mess. She scooted closer, hand searching for some warmth still left in him.

She ended up curled into a ball, tucked against his torso, her eyes level with his lips. She studied them. Parted slightly. White. Dry. Chapped, a little.

 _He would press them against her forehead, against her eyelids, and then, when she let him, against her own lips._

She leaned in toward them, ducking her head to let his still lips touch her forehead.

Her skin warmed slightly. Like there was an echo of life inside his mouth.

One bloodstained hand reached up to hold his head there, against hers. The blood had dried on her palm, leaving no marks behind where she touched him.

 _Please don't leave. I need_

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

She went somewhere.

Without moving.

She drifted.

 _Fugue state._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

He wasn't warm anymore.

She was curled up against a cold corpse.

 _I should move._

 _I can't._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

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.

.

Dark.

It was dark out. The night—the next—she didn't know.

.

.

.

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.

.

Cold.

It was an intense cold. Numbing her body one portion of a time, icicles creeping around her heart.

She shivered. She couldn't stop.

.

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Quiet.

It was so quiet. No sound except her own breath ghosting in and out.

.

.

.

.

And something else.

Droning. Humming. Buzzing.

Wings?

.

.

.

An insect's wings.

The fly was back.

An unseasonable fly—shouldn't it have frozen by now?

It landed on his cheek. Stepped around. Could it taste the death? Lydia was almost sure it could.

She could hear it.

Like the whispers that led her toward dead bodies, that told her what to draw, they weren't words exactly.

She knew, though. Knew it to be testing this body, poking at it, sinking into disappointment.

A _fly._

She lifted her head. Blood dripped sticky from her hair, her scalp, bathing her in streaks, rivulets, of red.

It...turned to her. Its many eyes all seemed to whisper in unison as they locked with hers. She regarded it, listening to the whispers. The banshee squirmed inside her, uncomfortable.

 _Bad._

 _Other._

 _Dangerous._

 _Powerful._

It tasted like death. Reeked of it.

Pressure pulsed against her skull, a dull warning.

She ignored it.

She held its gaze, listening to what it asked. Said. Not a question, not an order, something in between the two. An offer. An invitation. A proposal.

Light bloomed in her blank brain. The whispers grew, insistent, until her ears rang. There was hope. A way out.

Her dream flashed before her eyes—the tree stump, the fireflies around her, the dead body rising, lumbering on unsteady sinister legs. Stilted. Jarring. Reanimated.

Her dry unfeeling lips parted, quivering with cold and shock. When she spoke, for the first time since the scream, her voice was thin, stringlike. It broke on the first syllable.

"Yes."

It twitched one wing. Pleasure? Excitement?

She was certain the banshee's wail already building inside her would soon rush past her lips and show her the consequences of what she was about to do.

"Save him."

* * *

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